To Remember
by JacquiDee
Summary: She represents purity and heaven and faith; she represents family and so she represents Dean, and that is why Sam fights. But Dean remembers. A short drabble about Dean's memories of Mary. *possible spoilers if you haven't seen the end of season 11 yet*


**A/N: Hello my darlings! This is my first attempt at Supernatural fanfiction and if I wasn't already hopelessly and irreversibly part of this fandom (and quite happy about it), I am now! *insert copyright speech here, insert not my characters and not making any money speech here*Thank you for clicking on this and pretty please tell me what you think in a comment or message! Lots of love and happy reading!**

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When Dean jams his phone in his pocket after some futile attempts to find signal and reach Sam and stumbles out of the trees towards the panicked, confused, feminine voice and sees his mother, his entire world, everything down to his muscles and bones and blood and heart and soul, freezes. Because Dean, he remembers and it hurts.

Sam fights for their mother, he always has and he always will, but he does so blindly in a way. Sam fights for their mother because she represents Jessica and he does remember her. She represents purity and heaven and faith; she represents family and so she represents Dean, and that is why Sam fights. Sam doesn't fight because he remembers. He was six months old, and Dean cannot blame him for the carelessness with which he had handled her name when they first reunited a decade and more ago at Stanford. The only mother Sam has ever known is Dean, the only kindness that ever balanced their father's heavy hand was the absolute devotion from his older brother. The first steps his little brother took were not towards a clapping, smiling woman in a sundress on the yard, they were on a scratchy, stained, motel room carpet towards Dean, who promptly put his gun away to catch him as he fell. The first words Sam could form with a childish curiosity and terrible pronunciation were not directed towards their mother, but to Dean, and the only family member Sam will ever idolize, will ever cherish and would ever die for is his brother.

But Dean remembers. Dean remembers her lavender and cherry shampoo enveloping him in a blonde veil as she leaned over to give him a goodnight kiss. Dean remembers the comforting weight of her soft, delicate fingers combing through his hair as he lay his head in her lap when his stomach hurt. Dean remembers her soothing, somewhat crackly voice as she quietly sang the Beatles and cooked his breakfast in the morning. Dean remembers what her love felt like before his father sent him to war, Dean remembers being a little angel before he was a soldier. Dean remembers the cool weight of her sharp brown eyes watching him protectively as he played and he remembers the scorching heat of the fire that took her away. Dean remembers the months after her death and the obsessive pressure from his father to shoot straighter, run faster, and always, always look out for Sam. Dean remembers the hardening of his heart from everything but little Sammy because his little brother has his mother's eyes and Dean remembers and it _aches_. Every memory, every way his life could have unfolded if he hadn't been suffocated by a world he hadn't known existed, every thought he's ever had about her has burned him more than the fires of Hell and Alastair's knives ever did because he remembers a life before his personal apocalypse, remembers a life of carelessness and love, for himself as well as his family and, while the love he has for Sam will always permeate every cell in his body, the love he had for himself had been extinguished by harsh words and heavy responsibility when he was just a child. Dean is a soldier, Dean is a grunt, Dean has laid siege to every demon in Hell because he remembers.

So when he finally opens his mouth, when he finally croaks out one lone, rusty word that he hasn't said to anyone in thirty years, Dean remembers. He remembers the battles, the absolute war he raged for this woman. He remembers the lick of every flame in Hell and every cut and bruise and stitch he's ever had in the fight began for her namesake. He remembers decades of suffering due to her loss, the life of a soldier at only six years old. Under the weight of a curious, sharp gaze radiating from Sammy's eyes, Dean remembers. And for the first time in many years, it doesn't hurt so badly.


End file.
